I didn’t realise for ages that I was actually “ill” for a long time before I first sought professional help. I was often high for (sometimes lengthy) periods and behaved in a way familiar to fellow voyagers. I didn’t sleep much and had fantastic and grandiose ideas. I had boundless energy which I later tried to emulate when depressed with illicit substances without success. I spent what little money I had freely, often on cars, and indulged in lustful pursuits that with the wisdom of hindsight were probably a little unsafe and unwise. My interest in CB radio became an obsession and I often stayed up till the small hours chattering endlessly with anyone who’d listen. I’d often drive out of town and engage in conversation with strangers. It was our equivalent of social media, but without everything being stored permanently in the cloud. Thank fuck for that, future generations would probably take a dim view of what we got up to.

CB radio was great for casual hook ups, especially if you travelled to London where lots of single women were on the air. Of course, I always took precautions and gave a false name and address. About 40 minutes on the road and I hit the bright lights. Time for some action.

“Breaker 1-4 for a copy and an eyeball with a lonely seat cover”

A burst of static for a while, then:

“I copy, what’s your handle and twenty?”

“White Diamond, I’m just hitting Fulham. What’s your handle and twenty?”

“I’m Cool Cat in Putney. How old are you?”

Sounds promising, no messing around.

“23, what about you?”

“Sweet 21, what do you look like?”

“I’m 5 foot 2, weigh 20 stone, I’m bald, and my few remaining teeth are green”

“Haha, you sound funny, wanna eyeball?”

“Cool, whereabouts?”

“Do you know Putney Bridge Station?”

“I’ll find it. Are you mobile?”

“Yeah, I’m in a blue Escort in the car park”

“I’m in a red mark 3 Cortina, give me 20 minutes”

“I’ll be here”

I made it in 15. You can guess the rest.